


Cold as Ice

by skumhuu



Series: Retraining a bad dog [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Sanses | Nightmare's Gang (Undertale), Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Cervical Penetration, Crosstale Sans (Undertale), Dirty Talk, Dreamtale Nightmare Sans (Undertale), Dusttale Sans (Undertale), Ecto-Breasts (Undertale), Ecto-Genitalia (Undertale), Frostbite, Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Humiliation, Killer Sans (Undertale) - Freeform, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Beta Read, Praise Kink, Predator/Prey, Rape/Non-con Elements, Temperature Play, Tentacles, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28729527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skumhuu/pseuds/skumhuu
Summary: Post Cross's betrayal, Nightmare finds him and takes away his ability to portal through the multiverse. He then roughs Cross up and tosses him into a desolate genocide AU where he can't escape and sets his crew on him like a pack of wolves.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: Retraining a bad dog [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2106117
Comments: 10
Kudos: 163





	Cold as Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there Little Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good.  
> You're everything, a big bad wolf could want.

By now he really should have been used to the scent of despair in the air. 

Thick and heady, draping over the senses like a blanket of negativity. Cross knows the feeling well. Distinctive as the taste of pennies on his tongue. Like hot blood on his bones, staining him down to his very marrow. A deep crimson stain on his soul that can never be cleansed, no matter how much he may try.

Yet still he found himself floundering under the heavy shroud of negativity. Narrowing in on him like a bullseye. (Cross was kidding himself, one could never get used to Nightmare.)

He made for an intimidating figure on the battlefield, tendrils snapping through the air quicker than a whip. Nothing could touch the King of negativity. The most his enemies could hope for was a quick death at his hand. Mercy was a kindness rarely spared, if he was even capable of such a thing.

‘Enemies’.

The AU they were in had been full of innocent civilians. Practically bystanders to the massacre that Nightmare has chosen to inflict upon them. For little other reason than the fact that he _could_. 

He usually didn’t kill in his own AUs, but Dream’s were a slightly different story. He always killed. Just enough to leave the AU in a state of disarray, mourning their dead and further fueling his negativity. 

Cross remembers readying his stance, emboldened with Dream by his side and grip tight on his blade. He remembers the two of them being outmatched, Ink lured off by Error and Blue nowhere to be seen as the crew closed in on them. 

He remembers the cheap shot Killer had taken at Dream, nearly slicing his skull off if it weren’t for the guardian’s fast reflexes. Dodging away from Cross’s side, Dream had been quickly distracted by Killer and Horror. The duo had ganged up on him, the former with lightning fast strikes as the other swung his axe in powerful, earth shaking swings. 

Cross tried his best. He hadn’t faltered despite Dream being in trouble, trusting in the guardian’s abilities. Cross was the one who couldn’t afford to hesitate or get distracted, faced up against his former boss. 

He also remembers attacking with all he had. He had actually managed to push Nightmare back several steps, slicing through any trandril that lashed his way. Everything went wrong the moment Dream cried out in pain. Cross messed up, looking away from his opponent for a single second to make sure Dream was okay. 

He didn’t even get to do that, Nightmare taking advantage of the lapse in judgement, snaking a tentacle around his arms and chest and squeezing. Cross grunted as his ribs creaked threateningly, but the physical pain had nothing on the negativity that seeped through his clothing and crept over his bones.

Despair boiled over his soul like the taste of curdled milk on his tongue, sour and overpowering. His vision filled with nothing but a cyan blue. Ice crept up his limbs, unable to move anymore, complete dead weight in Nightmare’s hold.

The rest is foggy, as though a hazy film had been pulled over his eyes. Intangible and moving further out of reach the more he tries to grasp for the memories. He remembers the pain with crystal clear clarity however, the sharp edge of despair and negativity cutting deep. The frosty look in Nightmare’s eye, glittering with a promise of pain that he surely delivered.

Cross wasn’t sure at first why he was still alive despite that painful promise, but the real reason quickly became all too clear.

Staggering to the side like a newborn fawn, Cross nearly crashes to the ground, only barely catching himself on the rough bark of a tree. The air was so cold it burned, his teeth felt brittle like glass. He grinds his teeth together harshly to keep them from chattering. 

Trying desperately to catch his breath. Despite the small moment of reprieve from his hunters, quick, tiny puffs of air were all he could manage, ribs rattling. A telltale sign of both his fear and an unfortunate hint at his location. 

Gnashing his teeth together, Cross focuses on the pain and shoves the fear down the best he can. Knowing that his hunters don’t need to make noise to catch him only makes the sound of a stick cracking, far, far too close for comfort, that much more ominous. 

Using the tree as a backboard Cross shoves himself away, forcing his body into a sprint. Fear pumps through his bones like the world’s worst energy drink. Carrying him onward despite his marrow feeling like lead.

Breaktime was over, the hunt was back on. No matter how much Cross’s bones may scream for rest. (They can’t have their prey growing comfortable, now can they?)

He runs. 

Zigzagging and trying to find any hint of a familiar landmark. He could smell dust in the air, weather magic gone hostile to ward off any threats. This was very clearly the genocide route of an AU, he couldn’t sense any sort of life no matter how he may try. 

The best he could hope for was to head for the empty town of Snowdin to try and find a weapon, food, and maybe any of the villagers in hiding. However, the moment Cross got close to the town, he realized the error in his thinking. He was being chased by three ruthless murderers who wouldn’t hesitate to cut down some free Exp to get to Cross. 

He didn’t want any innocent person to die just because they got caught up in his mess. On that thought, Cross turned away from the town and bolted in the other direction. Deeper into the forest he went, branches becoming more thick, the trees and bushes more snarled the further he got from civilization.

He runs along an old forest path for who knows how long, knowing that he might be walking right into his hunter’s hands, but determined to keep on going.

Then Dust appears in front of him, as if he had materialized out of the very shadows. His grin is wide, form twitchy.

Cross skids to a stop, arms thrown outwards to halt his momentum.

He makes a sharp turn, kicking off the ground hard enough to send vibrations up his legs. He ignores the way his feet sting, digressing from the well beaten path without any clear objective other than _away_. 

Faint echoes of laughter ring through his skull, cruel and mocking.

Then, uncharacteristically, Cross trips and falls like some cheap horror movie protagonist. Pain shoots up his ankle, clearly twisted in some way. His elbows burn, and his vision blurs as his body begs for another break.

“No! Why now?!” He blurts loudly, immediately cringing at the volume of his words. He glances back and his mouth goes dry.

A rope, stretched across the forest floor. Clearly a trap meant to slow him down.

“Fuck this.” He mutters, irritated, as he forces himself to his shaking feet.

So distracted by his aggravation and pain, Cross nearly misses the shadow out of the corner of his eye. Years of training and sneak attacks nearly drilled into his skull by Undyne are the only thing that saves him. Cross jumps back nearly getting an axe to the skull.

“Fuck this!” Cross repeats, insides quaking at the mere sight of the hulking form right in front of him. 

A large over dilated eyelight darts in his direction, before locking on Cross like a laser locking on a target. He wishes he had his knife, any sort of weapon really, to try and defend himself with.

Cross doesn’t give Horror the time to swing again, spinning one eighty and running. This time he’s careful to watch out for traps, eyes peeled.

Dust and Horror keep appearing out of nowhere, and Cross knows he’s being herded. He knows it. But he can’t seem to get away from the path they’re forcing him on. 

Every time he tries, a knife darts through the air, nearly impaling him. Cross is practically covered in cuts, no way to run but forward unless he wants to get shot in the soul by a throwing knife. Too bad forward isn’t an option anymore.

A dead end.

The end of the underground lies in front of him, stone walls reminding every monster that they were trapped underground in a cave. No amount of paint and fake weather magic could ever entirely cover that up.

His soul sinks like a stone in his chest. 

He isn’t ready to give in. He won’t give up. Not yet.

Spinning on his heel, Cross darts to the left, only to stutter to a grinding halt as Dust melts into view, as silently and easily as a ghost. Blocking off the way to freedom as he tilts his head at Cross. Like a vulture whose meal wasn’t quite rotten enough for its taste, wondering how long they have to wait before they could feast.

Cursing wildly, Cross twists a complete one eighty and lunges for the right. 

Only for Horror’s looming figure to be right there, ready and waiting. He makes for an intimidating appearance. Grin twisted, his eyelight throbbing like a beating heart torn straight from the chest. 

The red is such a vivid color that it nearly hurt to look at. Yet Cross can’t bear to tear his sockets away for too long, glancing rapidly from Horror to Dust as they pin him beneath their own calculating stares.

Shrunken eyelights flicker between the two predators in his midst, frantically trying to figure out which one he would have a better chance of getting past. Only to freeze when an awfully familiar chuckle fills the air.

“You aren’t looking too hot over there. Little Red Crissy-Cross venture too close to the wolf den?” Killer says, voice deafening in the deathly silence of the forest. His soul lights up his surroundings with a red glow.

Closing off the last route of escape.

Killer steps through the frozen foliage without the slightest hint of rustling, casually flipping his knife in the air all the while. He’s made his appearance at last, and Cross hates it. Cross tries and fails to swallow the knot in his throat at the sight of that blade. His wounds sting in reminder, as though Cross could forget.

Killer’s sockets are gaping pits of darkness, so dark that one could mistake it for emptiness if they weren’t careful. Cross knows better. Killer’s eyes weren’t empty, but overflowing with liquid hatred. A hate so cold it _burns_ , akin to the nine circles of hell. 

His grin was easy going, offsetting the rest of his appearance. Like the bait of a mouse trap. Barely trying to conceal the fact that he could snap Cross in half at a whim.

“What? No, ‘My what great big teeth you have’?” Killer asks, mocking. He catches the knife one last time, twirling it in his hands as if he couldn’t completely stop all movement. 

Cross stares down his third pursuer like one would the barrel of a shotgun, dreading the pull of the trigger.

There’s no cue to start, they simply move closer. They all close in as a unit, easy and fluid and _terrifying_. 

“Too bad you won’t have a strong rugged woodsman to save you from the big bad wolf.” Killer says.

“Shut up, I don’t need anyone to help me punch you in your stupid target of a soul.” Cross snarls, a low raspy growl as he bares his teeth at them.

Dust mutters something under his breath, eyelights darting off in a seemingly random direction. Cross doesn’t hesitate, using the moment’s distraction to dart his way, ducking under his arm and using the tattered, dust covered scarf to yank him to the ground by the throat. Dust chokes and stumbles, covering the place where Cross just was.

Although Cross tries to force himself to move, to run, to bolt off into the brush to continue this chase anew, his leg chooses that moment to give out beneath him. An agonizing bolt of pain shoots up his entire leg, creeping through his spine. He can only gasp for air as he collapses in the snow, as if he had been struck by lightning. 

A strangled whimper unwillingly escapes him as tingling aftershocks run up and down his spine. He tries to force his body to corporate, managing to get up on his knees before his body turns to jelly and he flops back down. He feels like a beached fish, gasping for air that only burns, his ankle screaming at him for rest.

Forcing his trembling arms to carry his weight, he twists over onto his back. Even if it feels like he’s exposing his underbelly, he refuses to look away from his death.

Scowling under the hungry leers all pinpointed on his form, he is suddenly reminded of the way predators fatally injure prey before letting it loose. Following the splattered blood trail as it desperately flees, desperate to survive despite the hopelessness of the situation. 

Running is futile, mere entertainment for the predators as they allow their prey to tire itself out, to bleed out, before finally succumbing to blood loss.

Cross huddles on the ground, curled into himself. The snow’s so cold, so cold it almost seems cruel how gently the soft flakes cushion his body. He can see his rasping, shaky breaths in the air. Tiny, weak puffs of white smoke slipping through his teeth. 

He’s downed prey, and they all know it.

But even cornered prey has fight left in them. Cross gathers all his strength and glowers up at them, teeth bared and fists clenched tight.

He doesn’t care what he is. He doesn’t. He won’t make this easy for them. They think this whole thing is a fun game, merely child’s play, well Cross wasn’t laughing. He looks around for a weapon, a stick, a piece of sharp ice, anything that could give him a chance to stab one of their eyelights out at the very least. 

The trio begins to circle him, like a pack of vultures. 

He spots a rock by his hip as Horror closes in. The cracked eggshell of a skeleton reaches for his leg and Cross lashes out, grabbing the rock and aiming for the shattered part of his skull. It’s Dust who catches his arm, twisting his wrist until he’s forced to drop his makeshift weapon with a pained growl.

“Get the hell off me!” Cross snarls, yanking his arm free.

He thrashes wildly, flailing as his limbs are caught and restrained. Horror catches his legs with ease, big calloused hands wrapping easily around his injuries. The painful twinges make it hard for Cross to struggle. Still, he wouldn’t make it easy for Dust to catch his arms, blindly clawing and hitting. 

Dust can’t seem to get a good grip on him, especially not when Cross is going for his sockets. Dust barely dodges, a twitchy scowl on his face and a tiny scratch on his cheekbone.

Cross doesn’t have time to feel pride at putting that scratch there. 

He grunts when something heavy lands on his chest, forcing all the air from his non-existent lungs. Killer leers down at Cross, catching his angry swing by the wrist, grip tight and bruising.

He was too distracted by Killer to notice the swing. 

Something fast and nearly invisible darts past his skull, burying itself in the ground right by his head. Cross stops breathing altogether. He stares out of the corner of his eye, sockets blown wide at the blade that nearly missed his skull.

It’s a knife, obviously not Killer’s either, a tight dust stained hand gripping the hilt. Cross doesn’t move, throat tight and his body frozen with fear.

“Settle down, little red.” Dust hisses, catching his free hand by the wrist and ripping the other from Killer’s grip. 

Killer easily relinquishes his hold, scooting back with a dark chuckle. 

Dust holds Cross’s wrists down with a hand, before yanking his weapon free of the ice. Cross flinches when the knife comes down again, but no pain follows. He warily glances up and blanches. Dust’s knife is jammed through both his arms, neatly wedged between both his radius and ulna. The knife won’t cut him unless he moves.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Dust says, holding his arms down below the knife. He holds down his arms, muttering to himself as he stares down at Cross. The skeleton has a lazy sort of ease to his movements now, Cross can’t help but think of a predator assured in their victory. 

All the while Killer straddles his stomach, expression not unlike the cat that caught the canary. And oh, how Cross really doesn’t want to be that canary.

Cross glances to the side, trying to gauge whether he could find an opening to get free. There’s nothing, but maybe he could make one somehow... (Maybe if he kicks Horror in the face with his good leg, and yanks his arms upwards with enough force to get the knife through his arms free, he could have a weapon to get Killer off of him-) 

Cross stills when a knife is pressed against his throat. Killer’s smile sharper than his blade could ever be.

“Shhhh, little red, I can see your pretty little head racing. Are you gonna be a good boy and let the big bad wolves have their fun now?” He teases the tip down Cross’s cheek, “Or am I gonna have to make sure you won’t be able to escape even if you did find a way to get all three of us off you.” He tucks the blade under Cross’s chin, metal so cold it nips.

“Fuck you.” Cross snarls, but even that is enough to make his neck sting, blood welling up from the tiny cut on bone.

A bottomless hunger flickers across Killer’s face as he watches blood flow freely. Cross doesn’t need to look to know that Horror and Dust are doing the same. 

Cross bites back a hiss as Killer thumbs at the cut, his lightless sockets lighting up with glee. Since it was close to a mana line, it was bleeding quite a bit for such a tiny cut, and when he pulls back his hand it’s practically covered in a deep purple liquid.

“Your blood is such an interesting color. I like it.” Killer purrs, hands already stained purple and his knife covered in blood. 

He’s obviously only talking to piss Cross off. To dig at his mind just as much as his blade digs into his bones. Yet still Cross’s breath hitches at the praise. He hopes that for once in his miserable existence, the universe would give him a break. That Killer wouldn’t notice the weakness he had stumbled upon.

No dice. Killer tilts his skull like he had spotted something shiny in the dirt.

Then he smirks.

“You make the prettiest expressions when you’re embarrassed.” Killer says, running his hands through the blood covering Cross’s front, caressing his ribs.

Cross nearly chokes as his body takes the hint of pleasure and runs wild with it, adrenaline the worst kind of aphrodisiac. Embarrassingly enough his magic begins swirling in his pelvis, threatening to condense.

Thankfully Killer doesn’t seem to notice this time, too focused on running his mouth.

“Even in pain you’re so interesting to mess with, Little Red. Or perhaps especially when you’re in pain.”

Cross yelps, nearly losing control of his magic when Killer makes another cut, this time right through his sternum.

“Most Sanses have a ‘killing blow’ scar of sorts from the genocide runs of their AU. It’s very sensitive, I wonder if you have one too?” Killer hums thoughtfully.

He makes another cut, this one intersecting with the one on his sternum. An X right over his soul. Blunt fingers dig into the center, as if X marks the spot, swirling blood around.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Killer says as if he’s reassuring Cross, “I could always give you one. I’d be so careful with you, sweetheart. Make sure not to cut too deep, just enough to leave my mark.” Killer says.

“Stop. Talking.” Cross grits out slowly.

Killer continues on, as if deaf.

“Do you know where it is? Here, I’ll show you.” Taking his knife, Killer drags along a diagonal path from Cross’s shoulder to his floating ribs. The wound is shallow, barely cutting into bone, but the pain is _excruciating_. Pseudo memories of hundreds of genocide timelines all hit him like a truck.

Cross chokes on air, eyelights rolling into the back of his skull. His spine arches, pain lighting up his world as a short garbled scream is ripped from his throat.

The agony ebbs away slowly, gentle waves of pain that leave him a twitching mess beneath his tormentors. Somehow his magic has only condensed further, and Cross barely holds it back. He can’t. He can’t do this. He’d rather die than let these psychos realize what his body was doing against his wishes.

Cross steels his resolve, and immediately makes the fatal mistake of glowering up at Killer. That expression on his face…

“So pretty.” Killer breathes.

A direct hit.

A strangled noise escapes Cross as his ecto snaps into place.

Killer sits back with a satisfied grin and blinks when instead of solid bone his pelvis meets something soft and giving. 

“Oh?”

If bone could pale, Cross would be as white as a sheet.

“What a wonderful surprise, Crisscross.” Killer looks downright delighted. He wastes no time grinding down on the soft swell of purple ecto, twirling the tip of his blade in intricate patterns up and down his stomach. 

It doesn’t hurt, and Cross still has his shirt on as an added layer of protection. Yet he stills like a deer in headlights, tensing in anticipation of the next blow.

“We’re gonna eat you up.” Killer breathes, grin stretching even wider at the way Cross’s breathing hitches, eyelights merely pinpricks of light at this point. 

“Awfully chatty, aren’t we.” Dust murmurs. He glances up at Killer with hooded eyes, before drifting back down to Cross. But he, too, seems affected, earlier laziness nowhere to be seen. Dust looks ready to devour Cross, fingers twitching the slightest bit.

“He’s always been the type to play with his food.” Horror says, voice so deep and gravelly it vibrates through Cross’s legs. 

Cross can’t help but shiver, thighs quivering. His legs instinctively attempt to close. To ward off the sensation. Too bad Horror was already between them, hands hot on his icy ecto flesh, forcing Cross’s legs wide open with unsettling ease. 

Horror rumbles, “Sometimes it’s better stop wasting time and take a bite before the food gets cold.”

Cross’s blood turns to ice.

“Wai-” He cries out in shock when teeth dig into the ‘meat’ of his thigh. 

Sharp teeth sink into his ecto like taffy, sharp hot pain slicing through him like a gunshot. His whole leg throbs, body heating up like a fire had been lit in his very soul. 

Cross thrashes, struggling renewed, but it’s no use trying to get away. All he can do is lie there and take it as Horror bites into him like a nice juicy apple. 

For a terrifying moment Cross wonders if Horror intends to take a chunk out of his ecto, like a shark tearing through the flesh of their prey. Only for those powerful jaws to let go as quickly as they sank in, teeth sliding out of his magic with a sickening sound. 

The freezing chill of the air makes the open bite wound sting that much more, but Horror doesn’t leave it that way for long.

He nearly loses his composure all over again when a hot, wet tongue presses against his injury. “Hng-!” Cross bites back the noise, legs trembling, muscles spasming despite his best efforts.

Horror laps at the puncture wounds, slow and thorough as he licks up any trace of magic discharge, almost as though he were apologizing for his cruel behavior by nursing Cross’s wound with his tongue. An apology proven backhanded as the teeth sink back in a moment later.

Greedily gnawing at his leg like the world's tastiest snack, Horror latches on as though he can’t bear to part for too long. Just when Cross thinks it can’t get any more intense, the sharp teeth dig in and Horror _sucks_. Cross's breath hitches, before a soft, drawn out sound slips from between his teeth. High pitched and reedy.

Horror groans, low and reverent as a prayer. He nips cruelly at Cross’s thighs, only pulling back to lick his wounds clean and begin the process again. Large, calloused hands keep his legs nice and spread, the tight grasp surely leaving finger shaped bruises all along his bones and ecto.

Once more, Horror pulls back, licking his teeth.

"He tastes like chocolate." Horror rasps, eyelight pulsating strangely.

Cross doesn’t know how to respond to that. (The statement wasn’t even for him to respond to, Cross was merely there to be the spectator to his own devouring. He shudders and it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the interested glint in Killer and Dust’s eyes.)

“Oh yeah?” Dust says with a low hum, and Cross grimaces when the twitchy skeleton leans over his skull to get a better look, further invading his personal space. He hums appreciatively.

Lunging forwards the best he can in his pinned down position, Cross snaps his teeth at the hand pinning down his wrists and only manages to catch his sleeve. Nonetheless he locks down, teeth aching as he glowers up at the other.

Dust only blinks slowly, owlishly, as he tries to tug his arm free.

“Little red has some bite to all that bark, huh?” Dust murmurs, leaning back.

“He sure does,” Killer says as he patiently waits for Dust to make the first move. Cross feels Horror pause as well, all eyes on him.

He flinches when Dust’s free hand comes down, expecting to be hit until he lets go. What he isn’t expecting is the cool, gentle touch of fingers on his cheekbone. The soft caress is almost worse than any pain Dust could have inflicted.

An uneasy feeling creeps in at the soft touch. Only to be quickly washed away as Dust hooks his fingers in the crook of his jaw like a fish hook. Prying his jaws apart and yanking his skull to the side with ease.

A strangled yip escapes him, limbs tensing and his neck aching from the sudden twist. Thankfully Dust doesn’t keep him like that, forcing his skull forwards and-

Cross’s yelp is swallowed by Dust, tongue hot and probing as he dominates his mouth in an upside down kiss. He can’t bite down, fingers still hooked in the corner of his jaw, keeping his mouth wide open for Dust to explore to his heart’s content.

He can’t breathe, Horror is still lapping at his thighs, while Dust practically shoves his tongue down his throat. 

He doesn’t have time to process what’s happening before Killer brings himself back into the picture. He must signal something to Dust, because the skeleton pulls back with a wet sound, a strand of drool still connecting their mouths for a moment before breaking. It’s an incredibly lewd display.

Cross swallows the best he can around the fingers stuffed in his mouth.

“He _does_ taste like chocolate. Maybe a touch of fruit?” Dust says, fingers playing with his tongue. Cross can’t articulate words anymore even if he wanted to, eyes wide as he tries to process the fact that Dust of all people had kissed him.

“He tastes like chocolate and peppermint to me.” Horror says, face close enough to his thighs that the words send tiny vibrations through his ecto. 

“Can’t wait to find out for myself what he tastes like.” Killer grins, his leer ten times as penetrating as the knife in his hands. 

He slices through Cross's clothes, nice and slow, not hesitating to rest his hand on his hip, fingers spread as his thumb rubs circles into his stomach. The grip turns bruising when Cross flinches, wiggling uselessly. He tries to shake his skull free from Dust’s grip, but no dice.

All he gets is cuts on his arms and bruises all over for his trouble.

Cross has never felt more exposed in his life. He can’t bear to watch as his only shield against their assault is stripped away, leaving his faux flesh exposed to the elements. Cross hides his burning face the best he can in his humerus. Dust lets him, and it’s Cross who whips back to attention with a strangled yelp as a hand gropes his breast. 

“His nipples are already hard.” Killer chuckles, fingers ruthlessly tweaking his nipple. His hands are hot, especially so since the cold of the elements is only getting worse the more exposed Cross becomes.

He whimpers as his shirt is ripped away, his breasts exposed to the air, nipples perky and hard as the frigid air hits them. However Cross would much rather deal with the cold than have three sets of eyes staring unabashedly at his chest, only his shorts left to cover his dignity. 

Horror whistles softly, “Pretty. Think we could milk him if we tried hard enough?” What the fuck.

A short whine slips free when Dust grabs a handful of his breast, gently rolling a nipple between his thumb and his pointer finger. His other hand is still in Cross’s mouth, fingers pinching and playing with his tongue as embarrassingly garbled noises escape his throat.

“Maybe.” He murmurs, “But I’m more interested in putting some nipple clamps on him and seeing how long it takes for him to cry.” What the actual fuck.

“Boys boys boys,” Killer purrs, cupping his other breast, “Both of those things require equipment. The only thing you really need is your mouth to get our little red going.”

Wha-

Cross nearly screeches in surprise when Killer latches onto his nipple without warning, all tongue and teeth. The sensation is strange, every tug and nip coiling deep in his belly. His thighs tremble within Horror’s grasp.

Then Killer bites down, teeth digging in and Cross tenses up like a gunshot. A low wail slips through his teeth, swallowed up by Dust’s clever tongue.

Suddenly there’s a low growl as something hot presses right up against his pussy. Cross shrieks in shock as Horror mouths at his clit through his shorts. The material does little to stop Horror’s spit from seeping through.

“Hgn! Ahn!” Cross cries, spine arching. To get a better angle or in a fruitless attempt to get away, he doesn’t even know anymore.

Killer and Dust pull back to watch, both grinning as Horror tries his best to eat him out through his shorts. Cross tries to kick at his skull, flailing and whining before at last squeezing Horror’s head between his thighs as they quiver and shake. (Maybe if he squeezes hard enough he can crush his skull like a watermelon.)

Horror only groans all pleased and happy as he presses closer, doing the exact opposite of what Cross wants. It feels good, it feels really really good and he hates it. Cross whimpers, hips twitching. He can already feel himself building up from all the direct attention to his clit.

As if knowing that, Horror pulls back, leaving a couple last hot kisses to his clothed clit like an apology combined with one last little tease. He nods up at Killer, pulling Cross’s legs from his shoulders to hold them once more. 

Cross only realizes what that nod meant once Killer begins to cut through his shorts. 

“Hnk!” He cries out in protest, desperate not to lose what little cover he has left.

That wasn’t up to him however. Choice taken out of his hands with ease as Killer makes quick work of his shorts, exposing his quivering lips to the cool air. He flinches as cold air hits his soaked pussy like a slap.

He can’t even close his thighs in a pathetic attempt at hiding, Horror forcing them wide open. 

Killer lovingly thumbs his clit, his own hands still nice and slick from Cross’s blood. Blood and spit mix together, making for an easy glide of wet across his folds. Horror spreads his legs further, so much so that his hip sockets sting from the unforgiving stretch.

Wet fingers circle his hole, before sinking inside with a soft squish. Cross can barely breathe as bloody, blood covered fingers explore and scissor his walls. Then he can’t breathe at all when Dust shoves his tongue back in his mouth and Horror bites his thighs some more. His thighs must be absolutely covered in marks at this point. 

Fireworks go off in the back of his skull, Horror’s teeth, Dust’s tongue, and Killer’s fingers all working in tangent to absolutely destroy him. Tears well up before spilling over like a broken faucet. Cross can’t control his body anymore, thrashing in their hold as cries escape him. 

Dust swallows them all down with ease, making sure to keep his arms steady so Cross can’t accidentally chop his own hands off with all of his struggles.

Cross can feel his face burning, overwhelmed tears stinging at the corners of his sockets. His face grows even hotter when Killer takes his fingers out with a wet noise and sticks those fingers right in his mouth. He can only watch as Killer licks his own fingers clean, not looking away from Cross for even a second.

“Strawberries dipped in chocolate fondue.” Killer purrs.

Cross trembles, from fear, the cold, or rage, he isn’t sure anymore. All he can do is try not to cry, failing miserably when he realizes that he’s not only completely naked but also completely at their mercy no matter what he does. His only hope was for Dream to somehow find him and rescue him, that’s all he had left, but that was looking more and more bleak by the minute. He was going to die cold and naked and alone, as these monsters have their fun toying with his body.

The fear finally wins over when the all too familiar sensation of despair and negativity washes over them like a thick blanket. 

Nightmare was here. To spectate the show? 

Cross can only imagine what an entertaining scene he must make right now. A bleeding, sobbing mess pinned to the ground. Mostly likely exactly what Nightmare wanted to see after throwing Cross to the proverbial wolves.

“Heya Boss!” Killer chirps, “We got him all nice and ready for you.” Dust nods in quiet agreement.

Ready?

Cross shivers and it has nothing to do with the cold. The crew all let go of his limbs with ease as tentacles begin to coil around his form, taking over their previous positions. Where their grip was like iron, Nightmare’s tentacles were practically steel.

“Figured I could join in on all the fun.” Nightmare answers absently, eye locked on Cross’s form.

Then, he smiles. 

If Cross believed in the human devil, he knows with absolute certainty that his grin would pale in comparison to Nightmare’s smirk right then.

A tentacle curls around his waist, dragging him uncaringly across the cold hard ground. Cross yelps wetly, grabbing for any sort of leverage to keep distance between him and the king of negativity. Nightmare frowns at his pathetic struggling and the tentacle lifts Cross up before slamming him back down. 

Cross chokes on nothing, wheezing for air. He coughs weakly, his whole body throbbing at this point. A hand cups his cheek, cradling his face as gently as a lover would.

“Hello, Cross. I thought my boys would have been done with their little game of chase by now. Although I can’t say that this isn’t a pleasant turn of events.” Nightmare says.

Cross glares bitterly, trying to quell his soft sobs and failing miserably. 

“Such an angry expression.” Nightmare nearly coos, gently wiping his tears away with a tentacle. He doesn’t seem to mind when more tears only replace them.

Cross stiffens as something smooth and slick slides between his thighs.

“I told you, you’re _mine_. I decide what you are, be it hunter or prey. Dead or alive. I hold your very life in my hands.” Nightmare murmurs, eye lidded as he stares down at his squirming victim.

Cross whines as he’s pinned down harder to halt any more futile struggling. The tentacle circles his clit, before sneaking down to poke teasingly against his entrance. No, no no, please no!

“N-no...”

Nightmare stills, “No?”

“No!” Cross protests weakly, trembling arms trying to push the other away. 

Nightmare’s eyelight hardens. 

“There is no such thing as ‘no’, not for you, not when it comes to me. I own you, body, mind, and soul. It’s about time you learned that.”

Cross cries out as his thick tentacle sinks into his pussy without any prior prepping but Horror’s spit and Killer’s fingers. Nightmare keeps going despite Cross’s pained sounds, uncaring of the tight burn that lights Cross’s pelvis up like a firecracker. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had torn down there, pain nothing like he’s ever felt before. (That was most likely the point.)

“Now be quiet, and take your punishment. It’s already more than what you deserve.” Nightmare hisses.

His tentacle sinks in deeper and deeper, only to stop when it seems to hit something. Cross whimpers, wondering if that was it, only for the pain to shift gears into pure agony as it mercilessly shoves past whatever barrier it met.

His back arches so hard his spine aches, a shriek escaping his throat as he tries to pull away with what little strength he has left. Nightmare keeps his hips locked in place with ease, tentacle wrapped tight around his waist.

“Look at yourself, such a mess. If only my brother could see you like this.” Nightmare clicks, almost as if he were ashamed. He forces Cross to look down at himself, hand wrapped tightly around his throat.

He can see it, a dark shape in his ecto, tentacle forcing itself deeper and deeper with every cruel agonizing thrust. It’s impossibly deep in his stomach, Cross realizes with horror. It’s too deep to be simply in his pussy, it was in his _womb_.

“No, no no no no no-” Cross mumbles, each breath hitching on a sob. 

“You’ve been a very bad boy Cross.” Nightmare purrs, as sweet as arsenic. “And bad boys deserve punishment so they learn to listen, or they’ll Get. Put. _Down_.” He emphasizes his words with three rough thrusts, dragging a ragged cry from his teeth. 

“Ahn!” Cross can only cry out as he’s fucked with reckless abandon, ice shredding his shoulder blades like tiny blades.

Snowy crunches softly besides his skull and Cross finally remembers their audience, the trio of hunters watching hungrily as their leader’s tentacles fuck into his pussy at a brutal pace. 

He glares at them the best he can through his sobs, though he most likely looks like a debauched mess. They all leer back, Killer even gropes himself with his blood covered hands. They seem to be drinking in the ‘lovely’ sight, and Cross has to force himself to look away from the glowing tents in their pants before he gets sick.

“I think he’s more than prepared enough now.” Nightmare says idly, and someone snickers.

The tentacle pulls out with a sloppy wet noise. 

A confused sound slips free as Cross is repositioned on his hands and knees. This time, something much harder presses past his lips, hot and throbbing against his walls. His trembling arms immediately give out beneath him, and Nightmare makes no move to support his body other than his hips.

“Ahn!” Cross cries out as Nightmare fucks into him, dick sinking in with ease after the vicious stretch from before. 

His hips are forced into the air, breasts pressed against the cold hard snow. The ice bites into his nipples, and he claws at the ground for any sort of purchase. He can’t feel his fingers at this point, frostbite creeping up his bones. 

Unbothered, Nightmare ruts down into his battered pussy, forcing his exhausted and injured body to keep going. 

Unfortunately the new angle also lets Nightmare’s thick length rub against his swelling clit. With every bruising thrust, pleasure flares through him. His body latches onto the sparks of pleasure like a lifeline. Cross can only cry. He doesn’t want to feel any pleasure from this, he wants to be strong, wants to fight and struggle, but he’s so weak. He’s so so weak. 

He wants to feel good.

Nightmare rumbles in satisfaction when Cross angles his hips to better hit his clit. The change in angle lets Nightmare’s dick slide against a spot that nearly makes him see stars. A tiny, pained mewl escapes Cross, tears streaming down his burning cheeks. 

He can practically feel Nightmare’s grin, hands tightening as he leans into the angle. His front is flushed against his back, warmth practically radiating through Cross. Nightmare has never felt warm before, but his mind is too gone to think on that. All he wants is to press back against Nightmare, to soak up what little warmth he could get from the other. 

Soft pants fill the air, puffs of white forced from between his teeth with every thrust. 

As if pleased that Cross was cooperating with him, Nightmare gentles his grip, rubbing circles in his hips as he hits that spot over and over again with every thrust. Cross can feel himself building up, endorphins from pain and pleasure mixing together in a deadly combination. Wet moans escape Cross as he subconsciously presses back into Nightmare’s thrusts, crying all the while.

A tentacle presses against his clit, rubbing in tiny, rapid circles and that's all he needs to completely fall apart.

Cross cums with a soundless scream, spasming underneath Nightmare as the king ruthlessly fucks him through and then past his orgasm. He can only lie there and take it, an overstimulated sobbing mess as Nightmare takes what he wants.

Nightmare’s breath is hot on the back of his neck, and then teeth latch onto his neck, canines sharp like daggers. He cums with a low grunt, hands on Cross’s thighs as he pulls his hips flushed against his own. Cross shivers as the closest thing to heat he’s felt in what feels like years floods deep in his insides.

He sobs, trembling as his pussy unwillingly milks every last drop.

Tentacles slip from his body, and what little support that kept him from collapsing lets go. Nightmare doesn’t help, even pushing his hip and doing nothing as Cross listlessly tips over, He falls over with a soft sound, and he merely lies there, unable to even curl up and hide the best he can.

He’s covered in blood and cum, cuts and bruises quickly forming on both bone and ecto. His body throbs like a heartbeat, skull pounding like a drum. He’s wet and cold, and what little warmth he had left is steadily oozing from his pussy. 

“Are... Are you gonna kill me now? Leave me here to die?” Cross finally brings himself to ask, words slurred. He looks up at Nightmare with defeated eyes, waiting for the killing blow.

He can’t bring himself to feel any particular way other than exhausted about that, since he was pretty sure that was the plan all long. Torture, pain, humilation, then death. Wasn’t that how this sort of thing usually went? The absolute terror was still there, always lingering in the background, but pain made it easier to blur that out.

Nightmare is silent for several long moments, no one speaks, no one even moves a muscle. Cross is barely aware of that time, half delirious from blood loss. He merely blinks and suddenly there are tentacles gently tucked beneath him. 

He’s scooped up into the air, the motion enough to make him sick, before his body is settled against something warm and sturdy.

“No, I’ve decided. There are better, more interesting ways to handle your insubordination.” Nightmare murmurs against Cross’s skull, words soft yet firm. A clear order that whatever plan they had in place was to be rewritten.

“Wha…?” Cross trails off, confused but then instantly regretting ever opening his big mouth. It’s clear that Nightmare isn’t going to kill him yet so why is he questioning this?

Nightmare only hums.

“It seems as though you forget your place no matter how much I remind you. I’ve always considered myself a fair king, at least to what I consider mine, so here’s another reminder and perhaps this one shall stick in that thick skull of yours.” Nightmare says, voice low.

“No matter what you do, you’re mine. My minion, my weapon, my _tool_ to be used however I deem fit.” Nightmare purrs. Cross can’t make out his features through his blurred vision. All he can see is bright cyan, piercing through him like ice.

“And maybe, just maybe, if you’re good and beg just right, I may reconsider your current use as my crew’s newest chew toy.” Nightmare says, almost idly.

At thought of going through this again, of Nightmare keeping him alive for entertainment purposes, is terrifying beyond words could ever convey. 

And Cross can’t anymore. He can’t stand this anymore. Not with his mental barriers frayed and torn to shreds. His pride shattered to teeny tiny bits, his mind desperate to make the pain finally stop. 

Cross _breaks_.

Slowly, every inch of his aching body protesting the movement, Cross curls up against Nightmare. He trembles, clinging to him as tightly as his frostbitten fingers will allow. Soft sobs escape his torn up throat as he shakes apart.

“I’ll be good.” Cross sobs hoarsely, “Please, I’ll be good, I promise I’ll be good for now on. ‘M so sorry.”

Nightmare doesn’t respond, and Cross begins to panic. What was he forgetting?

What could he-

Oh.

“B-boss.” The tentacles ripple, and Nightmare goes as still as a statue. 

Cross begins to beg, slurred and broken, “I’ll be good, please, Boss. M’sorry, m’sorry. ‘M so sorry for leaving, boss please forgive me. I’m yours, I’m whatever you want me to be, my king. I promise I’ll be good please-” 

“Shhhhh.” Cross whimpers as a tentacle is pressed against his teeth, shutting him up instantly. He can’t hold back the tears, or his soft sobs, shoulders shaking. He hides in his king’s chest, tears mixing with the slime. 

“There might be hope for you yet, Cross. ” Nightmare rumbles, pleased. 

Cross blinks and suddenly the air is warm and welcoming instead of icy and painful. Magic is flowing back into his bones, trickling into his soul.

“Rest now. You’ve been very bad lately, but you finally did a good job for me today. A very good job.” Nightmare murmurs.

Good? He was good?

Everything is smeared as if the world was made of wet paint and someone mixed all the colors together. Cross slowly goes slack in his king’s hold. Nightmare doesn’t let go, a steady anchor holding him down beneath dizzying waves that make the room feel like it's spinning and rocking back and forth at the same time.

Warmth begins to seep in and yet he still can’t stop crying. Tears silently falling from his sockets.

A tentacle brushes over his cheeks, wiping his tears away and gently forcing his eyes shut. 

“Shhh, sleep now.”

At the firm command Cross promptly passes out.


End file.
